


you've got a fire inside, but your heart's so cold.

by orphan_account



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon Lives, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Canon Divergence - Robert's Rebellion, Elia lives, Gen, Independent North, Jon Snow Doesn't Join the Night's Watch, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, King Rhaegar Targaryen, POV Sansa Stark, Prince Aegon VI Targaryen, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, Queen Elia Martell, Rhaegar Lives, Rhaenys lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:07:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23292961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There's an army of the dead marching to Winterfell, and Jon hates to admit it, but he's the only person who can convince King Rhaegar to get off his damn throne and actually help the kingdoms he rules over.
Relationships: Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow & Sansa Stark, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen (mentioned)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 155





	you've got a fire inside, but your heart's so cold.

**Author's Note:**

> I really don't have any backstory for this. this story is entirely self-indulgent and honestly started as a 4-line dialogue on a notepad. 
> 
> so yes, I am aware of the bright glaring plotholes.

**you've got a fire inside, but your heart's so cold;**

**/**

“If you refuse to aid Winterfell in this battle, your Grace,” says Jon, eyes burning, “then I will bring fire and blood to this kingdom you care so much about.”

There’s silence, for a moment, and Sansa sees Jon’s eyes widen as he seems to realize the full weight of what he’s said. _Fire and blood,_ her father had told her when she was little, _the words of House Targaryen._ The way the words slip so casually from Jon’s mouth, as if they’ve always been there and the coldness of the North has only smothered them—it makes Sansa shiver.

There’s a hum of interest from Rhaegar. “Fire and blood, you said,” he muses from his throne, completely unbothered by Jon’s threat. “And you are a Stark?”

Jon stiffens, turning away from Elia and faces the king. “I suppose.” He purses his lips and adds as an afterthought, “Your Grace.”

Sansa almost lets out a short laugh of incredulity. That’s the Jon she knows. Always defiant against authority, always looking for a flicker of independence, never knowing when to _stop._ But then there’s the way Jon’s hands clench into fists at his sides as he stares up at Rhaegar Targaryen, the way absolute flames lick at his eyes as if to consume the Northern King residing in them.

 _He’s not a Stark,_ Bran’s voice says in her ears. _He’s never been one._

An amused smile breaks out on Aegon’s face, and Sansa’s focus shifts to the regal prince lounging on his own throne, silky robes falling gracefully over his lean body. “I never thought I’d live long enough to hear yet another Stark promise fire and blood,” he says as he shoots a brief, pointed glance at his father, eyes dancing with… Well, Sansa’s not sure what it is, though it’s dangerously close to wistful nostalgia. Like Jon reminds him of someone he once knew, or someone he’s heard about but never gotten the chance to meet.

Jon glances at Bran who, in his wheelchair, still looks as majestic as Rhaegar on his throne. “It’s your choice, Jon,” he says softly. “But telling them may be the only way to secure an alliance.”

“I know that,” Jon snaps. “You think it’s been easy to keep secret? To look at them, to look at _her_ and…” He trails off. His shoulders shake, and a strangled sound escapes his throat.

“Are you alright, brother?” asks Arya, concern on her face. Sansa mirrors the expression.

Jon takes in a deep breath. He clenches and unclenches his fists restlessly before relaxing and staring at the ground, as if defeated, though his head is still held high. _Like a true king,_ Sansa thinks briefly.

“I’m not your brother,” Jon announces abruptly, his voice carrying throughout the throne room. The king looks mildly surprised while the queen merely raises an eyebrow, and Prince Aegon's annoyingly handsome face glows in delight, no doubt at the family drama unfolding in front of him. _Wretched prince,_ she thinks darkly.

She turns back to Jon. “But you are,” she disagrees. “Not my half-brother, not my bastard brother, but my _brother.”_

Jon lets out a short laugh. “I’ve never been a bastard,” he says flatly.

“Jon, what—”

“My mother,” interrupts Jon before Arya can even say a word, “was Lyanna Stark.” He doesn’t meet the king’s eyes, though Sansa can’t imagine _why._

Sansa glances up toward the thrones and Queen Elia looks absolutely livid, like she’s seen a ghost. Her fair skin has paled into an ugly white, and her pretty brown eyes are _glowing_. “Lies,” she shrieks. At the same time, Sansa hears Aegon breathe out a shocked _what?_ and sees Rhaegar stand up suddenly from his throne like he’s been burned.

Elia turns her head so that she is facing her husband. “What is the meaning of this, Rhaegar? _What have you done?”_

Sansa really doesn’t understand why this is such a big deal for them. _She’s_ the one who’s just found out that her father had a bastard with his own bloody sister. _Except…he didn’t, did he?_ she realizes sluggishly as she reads more into the look on Jon’s face. _He never had a bastard at all._

Rhaegar turns to Jon angrily. “Your lies will win you none of our support, boy—”

“I’m not lying,” Jon cuts in, and Sansa’s sure that her brother has a damn death wish until he continues with, “and you know it. After all, you’re the one who got my mother pregnant, aren’t you, _your Grace?”_

Aegon hisses through his teeth. “You _dare_ accuse my father of adultery?”

_“I _’_ m not lying!”_

There’s a soft pause. Sansa briefly feels the pressure of the air around her surge, increase, ring in her ears like a silent song, but then Jon cuts through the tension again, his words sharp enough to be a sword.

“When Rhaegar left for the Battle of the Trident,” he begins slowly, “Lyanna fled to the Tower of Joy. There, she gave birth to a baby boy.” He swallows thickly. “If Rhaegar were to fall at the Trident, if Robert were to return triumphant and find out his own betrothed had given Rhaegar another son, he would have killed the child, and Lyanna knew it. So the last thing she did,” he says lowly, “as she bled to her death, was give the child to her brother, Eddard Stark, to raise as his bastard son in Winterfell.”

The throne room shivers in fearful anticipation.

Jon laughs drily. Resentfully, so that everyone knows that he doesn’t want this to be true either. “My name,” he continues loudly, “my _real_ name, is Jon Targaryen.”

Silence. Then—

“Impossible,” denies the queen (who is most certainly not Lyanna Stark, Sansa notes numbly). “My foolish, _blind_ husband dragged that girl away from her betrothal and tricked her, but Lyanna Stark _died_ along with that horrid love child of hers—”

Rhaegar is frozen, mouth hanging slightly open, and Sansa almost laughs at the look on his face.

Jon shoots a glare at Elia. “Lyanna wasn’t kidnapped,” he says stonily. “She ran willingly from her marriage to Robert into the arms of the man she truly loved.”

He misses the way Elia almost scoffs, and the way Rhaegar’s expression betrays just a sliver of shame before it’s replaced by a carefully blank stare.

“If this were true,” says Sansa, slowly coming back to herself, “then you know what it means, don’t you?”

“Aye, sister. I do”

“And what,” demands Arya, “exactly is that?”

It’s Jon who answers her. “It means, Arya,” he says softly, “that as Rhaegar’s son, I'd be next in line if something were to happen to the prince.”

Aegon sputters in his seat and blanches. “The bastard son of my father and a Stark could never sit on this throne,” he sneers.

Rhaegar laughs lightly. Quietly. Bitterly. “He's not a bastard,” he says flatly. “Lyanna and I were married in secret, my marriage to Elia annulled, though I realized that was a mistake soon enough. Targaryen customs allowed for the prince to take a second wife, and we were wed under the Heart Tree.” He doesn’t meet his wife’s eyes. “I knew she was with child, but I never knew that it survived.”

“Aunt—I mean, Lyanna—” A faint blush colors his cheeks, and a smile tugs at Sansa’s lips at the slip-up. He clears his throat and composes himself. “Lyanna was smart,” he says wistfully. “The only way to ensure her son’s survival regardless of the battle's outcome, was to leave the impression that her baby had died with her. Else Robert would have had me murdered.”

“How do you know this?” asks Rhaegar. His voice is barely more than a whisper. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“Bran told me,” Jon admits. “And Samwell Tarly confirmed it. He read of your second marriage at the citadel, without ever knowing what it meant.” He purses his lips. “I didn’t want to say anything because it doesn’t matter. You may be my real father, but you’re not Ned Stark. I am a child of the North, and I want nothing to do with House Targaryen outside of this alliance. If you agree to it, of course.” He looks toward Aegon and Elia, then. “That damned Iron Throne is the reason my father is dead,” he adds flatly. “I’d want nothing to do with that either, even if I could claim it.”

Sansa swallows. There’s a dreadful knot in her throat, like little wolves clawing at her insides. Arya chokes on a laugh that’s lost somewhere between splintered trust and the memories of Jon telling her stories of princesses and warriors in a room that always, _always,_ smelled of burnt hope.

“You’re right,” Sansa cuts through the silence like it’s a tangible rope she can split in two with her knife. “You may be dragonborn, but you were raised a wolf.” When she smiles, she expects it to feel like fishhooks are holding up the corners of her mouth, but it doesn’t.

Arya joins in, stepping forward to grasp Jon’s arm. “You’re still my brother,” she agrees slowly. “That wouldn’t change if your father was the damned Mad King.”

Jon’s own lips lift into a small grin, his teeth flashing toward his sisters briefly like a budding rose in spring, giving only a glimpse of its true beauty.

Rhaegar looks stricken. His complexion has become pale, and he looks vaguely like he might be sick. “Gods, no,” he murmurs. “I should’ve—should’ve _looked_ for you, dammit, I shouldn’t have been so quick to believe you had died with Lyanna.”

Elia smiles as if she'd like very much to start crying instead.

Jon’s eyes soften. “I do not blame you for that,” he assures gently. “But you are the king of the Seven Kingdoms, and I was raised in Winterfell. You will never be my father.”

“This… _alliance,”_ Elia cuts in, shooting her husband a venomous glare. But her voice isn’t quite as harsh as it had been. “What are we allying against? Surely you cannot mean to aid us against the Lannisters.”

Jon shakes his head. “There is only one war worth fighting at the moment, my Queen,” he says politely. The fire in him has gone cold, it seems. This is the brother Sansa knows, the one she’s grown up with. The one she never considered family until she grew up and realized it didn’t matter that he was a bastard, only that he was Ned Stark’s son. Like her.

Rhaegar raises an eyebrow, relaxing again into his throne. _Those damn swords can’t be too comfortable to sit on,_ Sansa thinks vaguely before refocusing her attention on the king. “Oh?” he asks with little to no interest once again. “And what’s that?”

Jon stares at Rhaegar for a moment, as if thinking through how exactly to explain the situation without sounding ridiculous. He purses his lips, furrows his eyebrows. “The Night King has risen, and he is leading an army of the dead toward Winterfell. The North needs your help.”

 _Oh, Jon,_ Sansa thinks solemnly, looking at the utter disbelief on the king’s face. _That is not how you play this game._

Aegon lets out a vicious laugh. “An army of the dead,” he repeats. “Like the stories we were told as children to scare us?” He leans back on his throne. “If you believe those tales to be real, Stark, then you know nothing.”

“My name,” Jon says firmly without even blinking, “is Jon Snow, _your Grace._ And I can assure you that the Night King is real and very, _very_ dangerous.” He smiles slightly. “If you choose to ignore this threat, fine. You can watch as your kingdom crumbles and your precious Iron Throne becomes a pile of ashes at your feet.”

Elia moves to get up from her throne, but Rhaegar lifts a hand to subdue her. “Stop that,” he says dismissively. His gaze is on Jon, like his attention is just a single pinprick of light and all he can see is this long-lost son in front of him. He tilts his head. “You are certain that this is the truth. That the Night King has risen?”

Jon nods almost imperceptibly. Rhaegar’s eyes are wide and breathless as he takes this in and leans back on his throne. Aegon’s head snaps to his father, eyes narrowed. “Father, you can’t seriously be considering—”

“What reason does he have to lie?” challenges Sansa, speaking for the first time directly at the two Targaryens in front of her. “What would he gain by tricking you?”

Aegon pulls his lips back in a snarl at being interrupted, but it’s Rhaegar who answers Sansa. “If what you say is true, then this is not only a threat to Winterfell but to all the Seven Kingdoms,” he concedes slowly. He smiles slightly toward Jon. “Even if I didn’t trust you completely, half of you is still Lya.” The nickname slips from his mouth as if Lyanna Stark hasn't been dead for over ten years. He looks at Jon’s face fondly, a faint blush of possessive adoration in his eyes. “For that reason alone, you’d have my support.”

Jon is surprised, Sansa notices. Beyond surprised. She supposes he’d never expected Rhaegar to treat him as a son, not when Elia sits next to him and listens to Rhaegar allude repeatedly to how much he loved another woman (though, Sansa admits, the poor lady looks like she’s _used to it)_ , and certainly not when his other son keeps sending scathing glances toward his father. But Sansa knows it’s partly her fault, and largely her mother’s. Catelyn hated Jon as if he’d been born with the sole purpose of destroying her family and made sure that he always knew where his place truly was, that he wasn’t really a Stark. Jon had never been treated like he was someone’s son. Not really.

“Thank you, your Grace,” Jon says, and Sansa is dragged out of her memories, vaguely feeling like she’d been drowning in a pool of all the mistakes she’s made.

Rhaegar smiles imperceptibly. “Like I said, Jon,” he reminds, “you are my son. If you will not call me your father, then please call me Rhaegar.”

Jon nods, his eyes glassy. “I—” He falters, furrows his eyebrows, and clears his throat. “You have dragons,” he says instead of what Sansa thinks was meant to be a breathless _I miss you._ “Would you mind if I meet them?”

Rhaegar’s eyes light up with black fire even as Aegon stands up from his throne indignantly, the flames swaying under his purple gaze like men and maidens in a ballroom. “Yes, I’d like that,” he agrees and stands from his throne.

“Father, you can't serious!” Aegon protests. “You know how rare dragons are! Aunt Daenerys just barely managed to hatch those three eggs and you're just going to let this—”

The prince quiets down at the significant look his father gives him. Sansa thinks they might have come to a silent understanding, but Aegon seems like he's anything but subdued and a complacent smirk tugs at the king's lips. “I have a daughter, you know,” Rhaegar continues, disregarding his son's poisonous glare and continuing to walk slowly out of the throne room. “Rhaenys, my eldest. She's tending to her own dragon at the moment, but—” he gives Jon a once-over and grins “—I think you might get along.”


End file.
